


At the Edge of Desire

by philalethia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Arse Worship, Awkwardness, First Time, Humor, M/M, Masturbation, Obsessive Sherlock, Pining, Post-Season/Series 03, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-21
Updated: 2015-11-21
Packaged: 2018-05-02 18:22:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5258903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philalethia/pseuds/philalethia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While helping John move back in to the flat, Sherlock discovers a strap-on among John's things. He finds the discovery considerably difficult to move past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At the Edge of Desire

It was John’s fault entirely.

Yes, Sherlock had been pleased when John phoned to say that he was moving back to Baker Street after the divorce was finalised. (Specifically, Sherlock had rung off and promptly done a silent celebratory leap before rushing to tell Mrs Hudson the news.) But he’d had no intention at all of _helping_ with the move.

Then John had stomped up the stairs, stood in the flat’s entrance, and stared at Sherlock—who was reclining on the sofa, more serene and content than he’d been in years—with thin lips and a clenched jaw. “So help me, Sherlock,” he said, “if you lie there and watch me haul my things up two flights of stairs by myself, I will make you regret it.”

And Sherlock knew John Watson well enough that he hopped immediately to his feet and followed John out the door.

He was in a foul mood about it, though. John’s belongings, once as familiar and comforting as Sherlock’s coat, were now strange and wrong. Everything smelt faintly of cloves and Claire de la Lune, there was a dark-blue rolling suitcase Sherlock had never seen before in his life, and certain items—such as the small open box of photos of a red-faced, perpetually crying newborn baby who wasn’t and had never been John’s daughter, who was in fact little more than evidence of his murderous ex-wife’s betrayal—summoned such a surge of sentiment in Sherlock that he couldn’t even bear to look at them.

So he ensured the suitcase banged loudly on every step as he dragged it upstairs, he left John’s bag of toiletries in the middle of the bedroom floor where John tripped over it shortly after, and when he found himself carrying an opaque white plastic container whose contents he couldn’t deduce, Sherlock didn’t hesitate to pop open the lid and peer inside.

And then he could only gape, dumbstruck.

Heavy footsteps on the stairs, a barely audible creak of a floorboard, followed by: “Oi, what are you—Jesus, Sherlock, give me that!”

John lunged, swiping the container from Sherlock’s hands, but it was too late. The damage was done.

Sherlock blinked rapidly, trying to banish the images that were flooding his brain and threatening to overwhelm him.

“Oh piss off. Don’t look at me like that,” John was saying. He’d replaced the lid and tucked the container under one arm. His eyes were narrowed, the line of his mouth harsh. “You can’t make me ashamed of it. It’s all perfectly healthy and normal. I mean, the blindfold and the tickler might’ve been gag gifts, but—”

“Harness,” said Sherlock, and then immediately wanted to saw off his tongue and flush it down the toilet because saying it made it worse.

“What?”

 _Ignore that_ , Sherlock thought, _don’t answer_ , at the same time that his mouth said again, “Harness.”

Faux leather. Adjustable straps. Buckles showing signs of wear. Long-dried smear of lubricant near the O-ring. It had been used. Had John simply tolerated the experience or—no, no, of course not. He’d kept it; he’d enjoyed it. Bending over and holding himself open, or maybe lying on his back with his legs up, or—

 _No_ , thought Sherlock, _no, please no, not now, not when I’d just moved past this._ He felt unnaturally warm and faint. He needed to sit, immediately. He sat—

—forgetting that he was nowhere near a chair. His arse hit the floor with a clamorous, excruciating _bam_ and he tumbled onto his back with a cry.

John was at his side in an instant, helping him sit up. His hands were empty, gripping Sherlock’s forearm. The box was nowhere in sight.

“Are you okay?” John’s eyes were wide. “Was—hang on, is this still about the strap-on?”

 _Strap-on_. That was worse. It conjured images even more alarming than the previous ones. John panting and moaning, John dropping his head back and saying, ‘That’s it, yeah.’

“There is _nothing_ wrong with it,” John was saying. His expression had gone stony, forbidding. “And anyway, it’s none of your business what I do in my bed.”

With effort, Sherlock gathered his wits about him just enough to answer, “Of course not. Your deviancy isn’t my concern.”

John reared back, eyes flashing. “Deviancy?” He bared his teeth. “Oh that’s rich.”

And with that, still snarling, John heaved himself to his feet and stormed out, taking that blasted plastic box—which he’d set on the sofa arm, apparently, and scooped up on his way out—with him.

So, really, it was _all John’s fault_.

*

That night was the worst he’d had in a very long time.

He couldn’t venture anywhere near the bedroom. Obviously. Not only was there the bed, with all its connotations, but there was John just above him. John who preferred to sleep in nothing but a pair of white Y-fronts, who had a tendency to toss and turn so violently the bedsprings squeaked and the bedframe rattled, who occasionally resorted to long indulgent masturbatory sessions when he had difficulty falling asleep.

So Sherlock remained in the living room, in his armchair with his feet on the cushion and his knees to his chest, and thought about triple murders and Cluedo and Mycroft’s ever-fluctuating weight. Anything but John and his ruddy plastic box, his ‘perfectly healthy and normal’ deviancy, his— _oh god_ —his strap-on. Although Sherlock had only seen the harness itself. Whatever was meant to be strapped into it must’ve been buried beneath it. Thus: small in length and girth, easily hidden. What was its shape, its colour, its material? Was it smooth or textured, stiff or bendable? Was it realistic?

 _Stop_. Sherlock groaned, biting his lip, and dug the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. _Stop and delete it immediately._

Too late. The images flickered behind his eyelids, as potent and disorienting as a strobe light. A little wrinkle of discomfort on John’s forehead, John’s mouth open in pleasure, John’s back sweating and tense—

What would he be like, when his partner penetrated him? Would he consent to be moved about, his limbs arranged and rearranged, soft and pliant and submissive? Or would he snipe and scoff and bark orders, bossy and difficult and headstrong? Possibly (probably) he would be both, depending on his mood.

With another frustrated groan, Sherlock kicked his feet to the floor. He wedged a hand between his thighs, squeezing them together until his muscles began to protest. He was aroused, so erect that his trousers bulged obscenely. His penis ached and throbbed in time with his pulse.

It would only get worse the longer Sherlock tried to fight it. _Just give in_ , he thought. _Give in this once and then move past it._

A favourite fantasy, retrieved from beneath a broken floorboard in his mind palace, dusted off, and laid out on the rug like all the pages of a newspaper. In it, he was wrestling with John in a bed, childishly playful, both of them giggling and writhing, poking, tickling, wrenching. Sherlock’s knee between John’s legs, John’s grin freezing on his face, a shudder rolling through him.

_Stop. Apply new data. Again._

Sherlock would make John work for it. So that by the time he finally conceded the victory to John, John would be flushed and panting, baring his teeth in a predatory snarl, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. ‘Got you,’ he would say smugly, whilst Sherlock let him climb on top and pin Sherlock’s shoulders to the mattress. ‘Now lie still and let me fuck myself on your cock for a bit. Mmm. There we go. Just keep that, uhn, keep it hard for me.’

“Oh god,” Sherlock said, both in his mind and out loud. He’d barely touched himself, had only managed to close one hand around the hard outline of his prick in his trousers and give it a weak jerk, before he was shaking and shoving his knuckles in his mouth to muffle his cry as he came.

Afterwards, while his breathing slowed and his mind grew sluggish from the rush of hormones, Sherlock imagined giving John’s bottom a slap, just hard enough that the flesh dimpled and pinkened. John would be startled at first, but then he would lunge at Sherlock for another playful wrestle, this one halfhearted and gentle, broken frequently by long periods of languid kissing and smiling into each other’s mouths.

It seemed hours had passed before Sherlock had had his fill of the fantasy, and even then he slipped it back beneath the floorboard with reluctance, stroking it once, tenderly, before he hid it away again.

 _That’s the last time_ , he promised himself. _You won’t do this to yourself again._

Sherlock listened intently for a moment. There were no sounds from either upstairs or downstairs. So, with a heavy sigh, he rose shakily to his feet and stumbled to the loo to clean himself up.

*

John had to work the next morning, which was unfortunate. Sherlock had had hopes of lounging about all day, relishing John’s presence in the flat. The sight of him in his usual chair whittling away the better part of the morning on his computer, the sound of him in the kitchen rifling through the fridge for a snack, the smell of him after one of his long late-afternoon soaks in the bath.

Instead, Sherlock would have to content himself with a single fleeting encounter before the sun had even properly risen.

He lay in bed, his eyes closed and his bedroom door firmly shut, and listened to John’s bedsprings squeaking, John’s heavy sluggish shuffle down the stairs, the pipes groaning as John showered, John’s quiet off-key hum as he shaved. The familiarity soothed Sherlock, transported him until he felt five years younger, when John’s presence had been so constant, so incontrovertible, that Sherlock hadn’t even thought to relish it.

The faint scent of steam and aftershave seeped from the crack beneath the bathroom door into Sherlock’s room. It made his chest feel tight. It made him want to slot his head just beneath John’s freshly shaved jaw, his face in John’s smooth throat, his mouth—

_No. Delete it._

From the kitchen came the sounds of cups clinking, then a sudden thud and a muffled “Ow, fuck!” John stubbing his toe on a chair leg. Sherlock turned his face and smiled into his pillow.

How far he had fallen in five years, that John hurting himself in their flat could prove the highlight of Sherlock’s day.

He sat up, fetched his dressing gown, and left for the kitchen. There, he found two steaming mugs on the table and John beside them, glancing up, seeming as surprised as Sherlock felt.

“You’re up,” John said, at the same time that Sherlock said, “You made tea.” Both of them idiotic, unnecessary statements, so it was fortunate they nearly drowned each other out.

John blinked and looked quickly back down. “Yeah, well. I wanted a cuppa and decided to make you one while I was at it.”

A blatant lie. He had been talking to Mrs Hudson, who had no doubt been all too eager to give a full account of all the ways Sherlock had fallen apart without John, including but not limited to the Tea Situation. Sherlock rolled his eyes but said nothing as John lifted one mug and handed it to Sherlock.

“I assume you, er, still take your tea the same, yeah?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said. Although the mug was still steaming and far too hot to drink, he brought it to his lips and took a sip.

Awful didn’t begin to describe it. The tea was dreadfully oversteeped, so bitter that Sherlock couldn’t help but screw up his face in disgust. Even the milk (too little) and the sugar (too much) couldn’t mask the taste.

“It’s good.” He sounded choked, as though he was about to be ill. “Thank you.”

John wrinkled his nose, looking chagrined. “That bad?”

“No, no, it’s… fine.”

Sherlock nearly took another sip to prove it, but found he couldn’t quite go through with it while the taste of the last one was still so fresh on his palate.

He’d nearly forgotten this. How John’s coffee was decent but his tea was undrinkable. That there was a reason Sherlock had always made sure that he reached the kettle first. How many of John’s other peculiarities had been nearly lost, buried beneath a load of rubbish in Sherlock’s memories? He’d have to rediscover John Watson all over again.

“So I’ll just never make tea again, shall I?”

John was smiling ruefully, deepening the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. A stray thought—squirming and struggling and John grinning down at him in triumph—ventured into Sherlock’s mind. He shooed it hastily away.

“That might be best,” said Sherlock.

John snorted and ducked his head, which made Sherlock glow with pleasure.

This. He could manage this. The immeasurable fondness, the feeling like he could float away at any moment, the utter certainty that all he needed was John’s friendship and he would be happy for the rest of his life.

This was good. This was better, much better, than the alternative.

“Want me to dump it for you?” John asked.

Sherlock stepped back, holding the mug just out of reach. “I’ve got it. You should hurry and drink yours before you’re late.”

He waited until John had left for work before he finally dumped the horrid tea down the sink and then bolted up the stairs to snoop.

*

John had barely unpacked at all. His clothes were still folded neatly in the blue rolling suitcase. His computer was still in its travel bag. His shampoo, his shaving kit, his comb, and his toothbrush, despite having been used less than an hour ago, were packed away in a duffel bag that sat on the floor beside the bed.

It didn’t matter, Sherlock tried to assure himself. John had done the same after he’d first moved to Baker Street: behaving like a guest in his own flat. It had taken more than a week before he’d started leaving his toiletries in the bathroom. It had taken even longer for his other belongings to find their way downstairs and mingle with Sherlock’s: his medical journals on the bookshelves, his computer on the coffee table, a pair of dirty socks between the sofa cushions.

Eventually, he’d grow comfortable again at Baker Street. Sherlock needed only be patient.

He rifled through the bedside table (nothing but a crisp new paperback, with a photograph of the red-faced, screaming newborn slotted neatly between pages 60 and 61) and the small chest of drawers in the corner (empty but for a single folded pillowcase). He even patted down the bed itself (made with perfect military precision as always). Then he dropped to his hands and knees, threw up the duvet hanging from the edge of the mattress, and peered beneath it.

It wasn’t until Sherlock spotted the opaque plastic box that he realised he’d been looking for it all along.

_Not good. Very, very not good. John will be cross and you’ll regret it._

But he was already flattening himself against the floor and reaching, grasping the box, yanking it towards him. Its contents rattled and clanged.

 _Just a look_ , he promised himself. A tiny peek, enough to satisfy his curiosity (otherwise it would build and build until it was burning him from the inside), and then he would put it back. He would forget it. John wouldn’t even have to know, would he, if Sherlock replaced the box exactly as he had found it.

Heart pounding, Sherlock sat up and popped open the lid.

The items inside had shifted since last night, although not significantly. Likely a simple matter of being jostled whilst being carried upstairs and then slid under the bed. There was a cheap polyester blindfold, a feather tickler, a cylindrical plastic vibrator, dull dull dull. The harness, and whatever else came with it, was the only thing he cared about. Sherlock grabbed it by its straps and lifted.

Just as he’d expected, another toy was buried beneath. Phallic in shape, with a slight curve to the shaft, a series of soft wavelike ridges along one side, and a flared base at one end, it was glossy black in colour and small in size: roughly the length of Sherlock’s middle finger and not quite twice as thick. It was made of silicone, by the looks, although Sherlock would have to touch it and even smell it to say for certain, and that was… not a good idea.

Not when it had been inside John.

At just the thought, Sherlock felt faint and it was all he could do to get the box away from him. Drop it to the floor, toss the lid on it, and kick it away so that it skidded across the floor.

 _Don’t,_ he thought, covering his face with his hands. _Please no. Not again._

Too late. His mind was too powerful, his imagination too eager. The deductions came like subtitles for a film he couldn’t turn off.

Shape indicated the toy was suited for both vaginal and anal penetration, although length and angle of the curve suggested it had been designed with G-spot stimulation in mind: although prostate stimulation wasn’t out of the question (and could in fact, depending on position and skill, be guaranteed), neither was it the primary function. John (a doctor, and a very capable one) would have known this. Therefore, the prostate wasn’t the point. The texture, the ridges: it was the sensation of the penetration itself, the feeling of the toy pushing into him, the waves gliding back and forth over that sensitive ring of muscle. External stimulation. John probably loved that moment just before he was breached, the toy’s slick head rubbing over and over—

“Oh god.” Sherlock groaned into his palms, bent his fingers and dug his nails into his forehead. “Fuck.”

John would swear constantly during the act. And when he wasn’t swearing, he would be stringing together perfectly innocuous words in such a way that made them filthy. ‘Harder’ and ‘I feel so full’ and ‘I need it, come on, give it to me.’

 _Not here_ , Sherlock thought, almost frantic. _Shower. Quickly._

He dropped his hands and saw the box still in the middle of the floor, the lid crooked, and the ache that went through him might’ve brought him to his knees if he’d been standing.

Later. He’d put the box back later, after his shower.

He stumbled to his feet and towards the stairs.

*

“Have you moved at all today?”

As Sherlock blinked, his lashes dragged against the eyepiece of his microscope. His soil sample, perfectly in focus, seemed to blur.

 _As a matter of fact_ , he thought, _I went up to your bedroom, snooped through your things, and had a wank in the shower whilst imagining you being rogered senseless. Apologies for any ejaculate you might find on the wall, although I think I got it all cleaned up._

He wondered what John would say to that. Probably best not to test it.

Instead, he said, “I wasn’t sitting here when you left this morning, was I?”

“No, but you’re still wearing the same dressing gown and pyjamas as you were when I left, which is never a good sign. Did you eat something at least?”

Sherlock half-turned his chin towards John, who was in the sitting room still taking off his coat. He looked… handsome. Happy. His spine straight, his head lifted. Not at all like a man still smarting from a bitter divorce after discovering the full depth of his ex-wife’s betrayal.

“Yes,” Sherlock lied.

A corner of John’s mouth quirked up. “Lying shit. Pasta all right for dinner?”

Sherlock shrugged one shoulder. Food was quite possibly the last thing he wanted to think about.

“Well, you’re eating it,” John said. “I’m not eating alone on the days it’s my turn to cook.”

Sherlock blinked. Apparently they were going back to taking turns cooking like they had done before. That was… unexpected. Unexpected but welcome.

“We’ve got… marinara or pesto sauce, it looks like,” said John. The statement was accompanied by the noise of rummaging through a cupboard and then a startling _clang_ of something—a can, by the sound—falling to the floor from a great distance. “Shit.”

Sherlock turned to investigate and promptly wished that he hadn’t. John was bent at the waist, picking up a rather badly dented can of beans, which put his bottom perfectly in Sherlock’s vision. Not only that, but the position accentuated it, made it look especially plump and grippable.

There was no reason the sight should’ve affected Sherlock like a blow to the head. John’s arse in dark-grey trousers was nothing he hadn’t seen before, nothing worth staring at in awe as though he were an unnaturally sheltered teenager who’d never before glimpsed an attractive human. Sherlock didn’t do that sort of thing. He was above it.

He wasn’t.

Sherlock stood, dimly aware that his chair was being thrown backwards from the movement and clattering to the floor. He cleared his throat. Clutching the can, John jerked upright, startled. Sherlock couldn’t meet his eye. If he did, he would flush crimson; it would be disgustingly obvious where his mind had wandered.

“I,” he said, but had to pause and clear his throat again. “Pesto. Pesto is… good.”

“Erm,” said John. Sherlock very carefully did not deduce his tone. “All right. I’ll call you when it’s ready, shall I?”

“Yes, that… yes.”

Sherlock fled the kitchen, and in the process banged his knee on the table leg and nearly fell to the floor like the can of beans. Ears burning, he retreated to his bedroom, where he remained until dinner and then retreated back to afterwards.

*

That night was worse than the last. Far, far worse. Still holed up in his room, there was nothing to stop him from stretching out in bed, closing his eyes, and imagining John in knickers.

Lace knickers. Black in colour? Red? Blue. Blue to match his eyes. John wearing nothing but little blue flimsy lace knickers.

 _You’re conflating penetration with femininity_ , Sherlock scolded himself.

John on his back, lower spine arched just slightly. A silk scarf (blue to match his eyes) around each wrist, tying him to the headboard.

 _Now you’re just conflating penetration with submissiveness._ Sherlock huffed in frustration and flopped over onto his stomach, burying his face in his pillow.

But… oh what did it matter? He didn’t care. Why should he care?

John in flimsy lace knickers, having to be tied to Sherlock’s headboard because he wouldn’t let Sherlock just do what he wanted. (He kept insisting on being helpful, trying to remove the knickers himself, when Sherlock wanted them left on but shoved out of the way, maybe ripped a bit if necessary.) John tugging weakly at the scarves, gasping as Sherlock teased him with the tip of his cock: stretched him just slightly before pulling out, stretched and then pulling out. John flushed and heavy-lidded and begging, ‘Please, Sherlock. Put it in. God, I love your cock. Just put it in already, please.’

 _You wouldn’t be able to hold off long enough to tease him_ , whispered Sherlock’s lamentably clever mind.

No, he probably wouldn’t. The first needy clench of John’s hole, and Sherlock’s resolve would crumble like a tower. He’d fall forwards, moaning and thrusting so hard and fast that the bed would rattle ceaselessly and John would only have the breath for a throaty ‘uh, uh, uh’ as he was fucked insensate.

Not terribly unlike the sounds that Sherlock was making now, as he drove his hips again and again into the mattress and grunted into his pillow.

 _Pathetic sod_ , he thought. He hadn’t even taken his dressing gown off, much less his trousers or his pants, and he found he couldn’t stop to do it now. The idea of John beneath him, arching under Sherlock’s weight, ruining his lacy knickers with his dribbling cock—too tempting, it called to Sherlock too strongly. Not even his mind’s last desperate attempt to steal control from his body—the whisper of _He’s your best friend, he’s the only friend you’ve got_ —could convince him to stop.

Sherlock bit the pillow to muffle his groan as he came.

*

“Rough night?” said John.

 _That’s a matter of opinion_ , Sherlock thought, as he crossed his legs and blew primly into his steaming cup of tea. _I humped the mattress like an adolescent, thinking of you tied to my bed wearing blue knickers, and then I spent an hour cleaning up the mess of ejaculate in my clothes and sheets. Is that a ‘rough night’ by your estimation?_

He said, “Why?”

Standing beside where Sherlock was sat, stirring milk into his own cup of tea, John frowned. “You just… look like you might’ve had a rough night, I suppose. Are you okay?”

 _Obviously not_ , Sherlock thought. _I’m cracking up and it’s entirely your fault._

“Of course,” he said.

John’s forehead seemed to shrivel and shrink as his eyebrows rose, but his only spoken response was “Okay. Good.”

As he passed behind Sherlock on his way to the sitting room, he paused briefly and patted Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock nearly jumped out of his skin at the unexpected—and completely unprecedented—physical contact, especially when it was followed by a playful ruffle of his hair. The touch seemed to linger half a second too long—

 _No_ , Sherlock told himself sternly. _Don’t read into it. You’re hopelessly biased, and your frame of reference for platonic physical contact is limited._

He couldn’t stop himself, though, from turning to stare like an idiot as John continued into the sitting room, behaving as though he’d done nothing out of the ordinary. John set his cup of tea on the coffee table, scooped up the paper from where someone (Mrs Hudson, no doubt) had balanced it on the sofa arm, and sat with a sigh.

Why a sigh? Disappointment, pleasure, frustration, relief? Easy enough to discern from the sound of the sigh, obviously, if Sherlock took the time to parse it, but—

 _Don’t_ , he thought. _You’re being an idiot. You’ll drive yourself mad at this rate, reading intent into every innocuous action._

He could still feel John’s fingers in his hair, brushing the scalp and trailing through a curl or two as the touch was withdrawn. His whole skeleton seemed to rattle, restless and excited, at the memory.

The sensation lasted well into the afternoon.

*

That night, the image that flashed repeatedly through Sherlock’s mind was John reaching behind him, closing his fist around a thick lock of Sherlock’s hair, and yanking so hard that Sherlock’s forehead struck the top of John’s head. Saying, ‘Don’t just stand there,’ with the growly, dangerous edge to his voice that never failed to drive a sliver of lust into Sherlock’s gut. ‘ _Do something_.’ Sherlock pounding into him hard enough that John’s face was wedged against the wall just as Sherlock’s was in John’s hair. John crying out, saying ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you, god, it’s so good, Sherlock—’

Sherlock humped the bed so hard that the sheets slid straight off the mattress.

*

“No, seriously,” John said, “are you all right? Your sleep schedule’s been almost sensible.”

Sherlock knew. Ever since this nonsense had begun, Sherlock had been sleeping an average of six and a half hours every night. As a result, his mind had felt duller, even occasionally—today, for instance—slow and cloudy. His thoughts seemed a soup, thick and difficult to wade through.

He shifted in his armchair and clasped his fingers beneath his chin. He didn’t look away from the bit of wallpaper he was staring at and said nothing. Let John think he was so deep in his mind palace that he hadn’t heard the question.

John, tying his shoes on the sofa, wasn’t deterred. “Not that I’m complaining, mind. I’m fully in favour of you getting more sleep.”

 _I’m wanking myself stupid over you_ , Sherlock thought darkly, _and tiring myself out, then collapsing in a sweaty and semen-covered stupor. Still in favour of it?_

But of course he said nothing. He made sure that he didn’t even blink.

“Anyway.” John stood, and Sherlock tried desperately not to admire him from the corner of his eye. His profile, the confident set of his shoulders, how his grey trousers had got just a bit tighter after the last wash— “I’m off. I wouldn’t mind the chicken with the red sauce, if you’re up to making it for dinner.”

Sherlock wasn’t. He wasn’t even sure they had any chicken in the flat, much less red wine of a decent vintage. Yet he knew that at some point during John’s shift at the surgery today, Sherlock would be stalking to Sainsbury’s to buy the ingredients, as well as an extra bottle of wine should John be in the mood for it.

Rather than walking to the door to leave as expected, John came towards Sherlock. It took all of Sherlock’s self-control to avoid turning his head to watch John’s approach and deduce his intentions.

When he was close enough, John bent over, one hand cupping the back of Sherlock’s head, and pressed an exaggerated, almost comical, kiss to the top of Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock jerked away, stunned, and found John smirking triumphantly.

“Thought that might get your attention,” he said. “Are you okay?”

John was still bending over him, still touching the back of his head, still standing so close that Sherlock could smell his toothpaste, his shampoo, his aftershave. The minty-fruity-cinnamony mixture made Sherlock dizzy; it felt for a moment like he would honestly swoon. Still, he managed a nod.

“Good.” John’s smirk became a smile, bright and cheery. It lit up his whole face; Sherlock’s heart pounded against his sternum. “I’ll see you tonight, then.”

He tilted Sherlock’s head back so that he could press his lips to Sherlock’s forehead. This time, the kiss was neither exaggerated nor comical, and it lingered long enough for John to inhale and exhale once, rustling Sherlock’s fringe. Sherlock didn’t dare to breathe.

When John withdrew, he was red from his cheeks to his ears, and his gaze was to the floor, his bottom lip between his teeth. Embarrassed, uncertain. Sherlock’s already pounding heart began to thrash wildly between his lungs.

“Bye,” John said. Still avoiding Sherlock’s eyes, he spun on his heels and marched, distinctly soldier-like, towards the door. His spine was perfectly straight, both fists clenched.

 _Overcompensating for his anxiety_ , Sherlock thought, blinking rapidly after him. Then, the proverbial mental bomb, whiting out everything in its path: _He has something to lose._

John was long gone by the time Sherlock managed to shake himself from his stupor. Then he shot to his feet and bolted towards the stairs.

*

John’s bedroom looked more or less the same as it had the last time Sherlock had been up here. The bed was perfectly made, the chest of drawers empty, the suitcase still unpacked.

Sherlock stood in the centre of the room and despaired. He didn’t even know what he was looking for. A change, obviously, but a change indicating what? That John was settling in, however slowly?

 _Don’t be obtuse_ , Sherlock thought, scowling at himself. _You know exactly what sort of evidence you hope to find._

He did, he supposed. Just as he knew that he would never find it, not among John’s belongings. John was hardly the sort of person to, say, keep a diary expressing his innermost emotions or explain why he had decided to kiss Sherlock’s forehead before leaving for work.

Sherlock threw open the top drawer of John’s bedside table, intending to check if John was still using the photograph of the baby that wasn’t his as a bookmark.

He found neither the book nor the photo anywhere in sight. Instead, he found a bottle of lubricant, a box of condoms, a package of pocket tissues, and the glossy black dildo.

Sherlock stared, spellbound. Condoms and tissues open (ripped open, indicating impatience), lubricant only three-quarters full (sticky sheen on the label, indicating spillage), toy lying on its side (lack of dust clinging to the silicone, indicating recent cleaning).

John had used it—recently. Perhaps even so recent as the last 12 hours.

Sherlock’s vision spun. Gripping the mattress with one hand, he lowered himself to the floor lest his knees buckle and put him there more painfully.

 _Oh god_ , he thought. Lust shot through him like a spike through the soft sole of a shoe. He was utterly helpless to stop it. _Oh god. Oh fuck_.

Sherlock hadn’t left the flat in days. He had been here at some point, faffing about in the sitting room or maybe even having a wank in his bed, while John had been upstairs buggering himself with a phallic bit of black silicone.

And he’d considered it before he’d done it. Of course he had. Anal penetration with a sex toy required foresight. John had cleaned himself, cleaned the toy… and to do that, of course, he must’ve sneaked the toy downstairs and washed it in the loo.

Therefore: John had stood in this flat, possibly stood in Sherlock’s presence even, and wanted it. While he’d been cooking pasta or watching telly, he’d been craving the stretch of something hard and slick up his bum and thinking about how he could get it.

Sherlock was gasping now, both his hands curled into fists against his thighs. Trying not to touch himself even as his head filled with images of John moaning, John fucking himself, John wanting it so badly he gnashed his teeth and whimpered into his pillow.

 _You could’ve had the real thing if you wanted it_ , Sherlock thought feverishly. _I’d have let you use my cock however you needed._

John nipping Sherlock’s lips, hard but playful, saying ‘Going to just lie there and let me, are you? I’ve got a fake cock right here to use however I need, why would I want yours instead?’

 _I’ll move_ , Sherlock thought. He was vaguely aware that his teeth were digging painfully into his bottom lip. _I’ll hold you down. I’ll fuck you until the thought of me ever stopping makes you sob and beg me not to._

John grinning devilishly and spreading his strong thighs, beckoning Sherlock between them, answering ‘That’s right, you’ve got it now. Now come on and use me.’

When Sherlock finally gave in and shoved his pyjama bottoms down, it only took four strokes before he was coming, shooting semen all over John’s bedroom floor and his own clothes. The aftershocks wracked him like a tree in a storm, and he sat panting and shuddering until the shame and horror set in.

 _This can’t continue_ , he thought, gritting his teeth as he stared down at his mess. _It’s got to stop_.

Even if he did have to request assistance.

*

“What the hell is that?” said Lestrade.

Of course he would make this difficult. Sherlock might’ve known. He sighed, rolling his eyes. “A pint of lager.” _Obviously_ said his tone. “I’ve been reliably informed that if you have to ask advice from a friend, it’s customary to do it over a pint.”

“You’re not having one?”

“No.” Sherlock’s head was clouded enough at the moment. The last thing he needed was to add alcohol to the mix. “Problem?”

Lestrade didn’t take his eyes from the glass of lager as he slid into the booth across from Sherlock. “Depends. Is it drugged?”

Sherlock scoffed. “Of course it’s not drugged. Why would I drug you?”

“You drug John.”

“John is—” Sherlock bit his tongue, catching the _‘the only person worth studying’_ before it came tumbling out. Too revealing by far, in no small part because it was fuelled by sentiment rather than truth. (Sherlock rather would’ve enjoyed, for instance, drugging and conducting studies on Mycroft.) “—an exception,” he said instead.

Lestrade’s eyes went squinty and then wide. He sat back in his seat. “Jesus,” he said, astounded. “Jesus Christ, it’s actually happening.”

Sherlock’s hackles shot up. There was little he despised more than someone knowing something he didn’t. Fortunately, it was an exceptionally rare occurrence. “What? What’s happening?”

“You and John. Fucking hell.” Lestrade took up the pint of lager, drained it in three large gulps, and thunked the empty glass on the table. “I should’ve known, just from your bloody text. ‘Guidance about human relationships,’ Christ. I might need something stronger.”

Sherlock’s defensiveness only grew. “‘Human relationships’ doesn’t imply romance. I—”

“No one said anything about romance,” Lestrade said. He looked insufferably smug as Sherlock’s mouth shut with an audible click. “And you must be _really_ out of sorts to give yourself away like that.”

Sherlock’s hackles drooped like a sail lacking wind. He was. He was really terribly out of sorts.

“Oi, don’t look like that,” said Lestrade.

His voice was kind enough to make Sherlock grit his teeth, feel stupidly foolish, and regret ever arranging this little meeting. He stood, reaching for his coat, only to be stopped by Lestrade’s hand on his arm.

“No, no, it—I’m not trying to be a cock about it, I swear. Just sit down, all right?”

Sherlock sat, keenly aware that his face was burning and his gaze stubbornly refused to fix on any one object of focus. Lestrade let go of his arm and scooted his empty glass towards the wall. When it was out of the way, he rested his elbows on the table and leaned forwards.

“Okay,” he said. “Now. What can I help with?”

 _Everything_ , Sherlock thought. _I’m a wreck and it’s all John’s fault. Make him stop being so bloody attractive and maybe everything will go back to normal._ He took a deep breath.

“You’ve had successful relationships.” Well, not entirely true, was it? “Began them successfully, rather. Your ability to maintain them for an extended period of time is unfortunately lacking, but—”

Sherlock spotted Lestrade’s face and went silent. Mouth small, jaw clenched, eyes narrowed. _Not good_ , it said. Fair enough. Sherlock moved on.

“In any case, I wanted to—” Sherlock’s throat was dry. He wished he had got himself a drink after all. Too late now, he supposed. “How does one… initiate a relationship?”

Lestrade’s pinched expression relaxed. “You say, ‘Want to give it a go?’”

Rubbish. “It’s not that simple.”

“It really is. Especially when it’s John we’re talking about.”

Sherlock’s hackles rose again, even taller and stronger, like spears. It was true that John was, or at least had been, somewhat promiscuous, but that was hardly reason to call him a slag with no standards. “If you’re implying that John will go to bed with anyone who—”

Lestrade made a disgusted sound in his throat that Sherlock was reasonably sure he himself had made on occasion, particularly at crime scenes. “Oi, don’t get your knickers in a twist. The only thing I was implying is that John’s over the fucking moon for you and has been for ages.”

Even more rubbish than what he’d said before. If John had any romantic interest in Sherlock, it was a new development. It had to be. “No he hasn’t.”

“He bloody has.”

He hadn’t. Sherlock was… well, perhaps not entirely certain, but reasonably certain at least. And anyway Lestrade had proved countless times over the years that he could stare down his nose at a perfectly obvious piece of evidence and arrive at the completely wrong conclusion.

“It doesn’t matter,” Sherlock said. “I’m not asking him if he wants to ‘give it a go.’ What else?”

“‘What else’? That’s it. That’s the simplest, most straightforward way possible. What’s wrong with it?”

Ugh, what wasn’t wrong with it? Sherlock couldn’t envision himself saying the words. They’d catch in his throat and stick so stubbornly that he’d likely sick up all over himself trying to free them; he was already feeling a bit ill just imagining it. Not to mention that it would leave him open and vulnerable, his stupid proverbial heart at his feet, and if both Sherlock and Lestrade were wrong, if John frowned and drew his eyebrows together in confusion and said, _‘No… why would I want to do that?’_ …

Sherlock couldn’t bear it. He’d never recover.

“You can’t possibly want something less simple,” said Lestrade. Then he blinked, staring at Sherlock as though he was doing anything more than simply staring back and waiting for Lestrade to finish. “Jesus, what am I saying? Of course you do, you overdramatic bastard. You want to make some sort of, what, grand gesture?”

A gesture? Gestures didn’t say; gestures implied. They could be misunderstood; they could leave him an out if he needed it.

“Yes,” Sherlock said, slowly. “Precisely. A… grand gesture. What do you suggest?”

Shrugging, Lestrade began to reach for his glass before recalling that it was empty and dropping his hand to the table. “Dunno. For you….” He crinkled his nose, mouth turning down at the corners. “Christ, I’ve got no idea. Doesn’t really matter, though. The gesture itself’s not important. It’s what it means. As long as it’s sincere and maybe a bit over-the-top, so John’ll have no doubts about what you want, then I’m pretty sure it qualifies.”

Sherlock’s mind whirred, thoughts like fan blades spinning round and round. Overdramatic, sincere, what Sherlock wanted.

“Sorry, that was a bit rubbish.” Lestrade scratched the back of his head, looking sheepish. “S’not really my best area, I’m afraid.”

“No,” Sherlock said, hardly paying attention to him any longer, now that he had something concrete to ponder. “No, it’s… fine, good. Thank you.”

*

“Tomorrow!” said Mrs Hudson, loudly enough that she could be heard quite clearly all the way up in John and Sherlock’s flat.

A different, masculine voice answered, speaking too calmly and softly for Sherlock to be able to make out the words, although he suspected the man was explaining he was terribly sorry but the repair couldn’t be made until tomorrow morning at the earliest. Or, at least, that’s what the man should’ve been saying if he wanted to be paid double the cost of the repair as Sherlock had promised him.

John, who was sitting on the sofa with his arms around himself to keep warm, dropped his head back with a sigh. “Tomorrow. Brilliant.”

“At least it’s above freezing,” Sherlock said, trying to sound put-out and not as if he had orchestrated the whole thing. “We should be all right for the night. I’ve a heating fan I can give Mrs Hudson.”

“A heating fan?” John’s head lifted, revealing his raised eyebrows. “Since when have you had a heating fan?”

 _Since I bought it this afternoon just before I broke the heating_ , Sherlock didn’t say. “A while. I used it for an experiment.”

John didn’t ask what sort of experiment, which was disappointing as Sherlock had gone through the trouble of devising a fake one already. But no matter. He plunged ahead to the important bits.

“We can use the fireplace for warmth. You should probably sleep downstairs tonight. You can share my bed.”

“Or,” John said, with the sort of emphasis he used when he thought (usually erroneously) Sherlock was being thick, “we could kip out here on the floor. In front of the fire.”

The floor. Sherlock very nearly curled his lip in distaste. Dirty, uncomfortable, lacking the associations of a bed. Although… discomfort meant tossing and turning, opportunities to shift closer. Not to mention the sight of John’s skin in the firelight.

Acceptable, Sherlock decided.

From downstairs came the not-quite-slam of the front door, followed by Mrs Hudson’s huff of frustration.

“I’ll take Mrs Hudson the heating fan,” Sherlock said. “Then we can get started on the fire.”

*

Sherlock spent an absurd—although not, he hoped, suspiciously so—amount of time in the bathroom preparing.

He trimmed his pubic hair, which was thick and curly and a bit wild. Or at least he removed the tufts around his prick. He was somewhat less comfortable aiming sharp objects at his testicles, which were more awkward to reach. The strip of hair surrounding his arsehole was left similarly alone. Hopefully, if John had any interest in exploring either area, he wouldn’t be put off by the hair.

Then Sherlock cleaned himself fastidiously, rinsing away the bits of cut hair and any dried sweat or trapped smegma. If John wanted anything to do with Sherlock’s prick— _Please_ , Sherlock thought fervently, _please want something to do with it_ —then Sherlock wanted him to find it clean, lacking any strong scent or taste, and… perhaps not attractive but at least not _un_ attractive.

When that was finished, Sherlock dressed himself in a T-shirt and pyjama bottoms and brushed his teeth (more thoroughly than usual). By that point, he felt nearly frozen, as the temperature in the flat had continued to drop. His limbs had broken out in gooseflesh, his nipples were hard and visible through his shirt, and he was shivering, his teeth trying to chatter although he refused to let them.

It would be better when he was in front of the fire and under a quilt, sharing body heat with John. Just the idea—John huddling close, his back to Sherlock, his bottom against Sherlock’s crotch, John frotting back against the length of Sherlock’s cock—had Sherlock closing his eyes and gripping the sink for self-control.

There was still the issue of condoms and lubricant, now that he and John would no longer be in Sherlock’s bedroom where they were stored in the bedside table (bought that morning, two of the condoms destroyed and a small amount of the lubricant flushed down the toilet so John didn’t think Sherlock was a complete novice who should be avoided). Fortunately, his pyjama bottoms had pockets, so he popped into the bedroom to fetch both items and stashed one in each pocket before he went to the sitting room.

John was already in bed, or rather the pile of pillows, sheets, and quilts that were serving as a bed. He raised his head as Sherlock approached.

“Aren’t you cold? Get over here.”

Sherlock got over there and knelt down, only to pause.

The pillow that he’d intentionally positioned so close to John’s had been scooted farther away, and the large two-person “bed” had been separated into two smaller piles of sheets and quilts. John was under one and motioned impatiently for Sherlock to get under the other.

“Look at you. You’re gonna freeze. Get under the covers.”

“It’s not freezing,” Sherlock said, although he did get under the covers. It was warmer over here, with the fire, but not enough yet to have chased away the chill in a matter of seconds.

“Shut up,” said John. He hovered over Sherlock, propped up on one elbow, and for a brief, glorious moment Sherlock thought he was going to move close after all. But then he lay back down, a respectable distance away. “Are you all right?”

Sherlock wasn’t. The intimate, erotic scene he’d envisioned wasn’t going as planned. The only element that had turned out so far was the glow of the firelight on John’s skin, which made him look tanned just slightly darker than he had been when they’d first met. Unfortunately, as Sherlock watched, he bundled the covers higher, until the only part of his body bared was his face.

Still, Sherlock answered, “Yes,” albeit in a tone that he recognised as pouty.

John didn’t seem to notice. “Good, okay. Well. I, erm, have to be up early tomorrow.”

Of course: John had work. Stupid, _stupid_ , Sherlock hadn’t factored that into his plan. Perhaps John could be convinced to call out?

“Just give me a nudge if you need anything,” John said as he rolled onto his other side, facing away from Sherlock. “Good night. Stay warm.”

Sherlock stared at John’s hair, glinting beautifully in the firelight, exposing all the grey strands amidst the blond. A cold chill wracked him suddenly, and he huddled further under the covers, wrapping his arms around himself.

 _Get closer_ , he thought, and in his mind he could see himself doing it. Wrapping himself around John, pressing their lower bodies together so that John could feel Sherlock’s cock (soft, not-quite-shrivelled from the cold, but with John against him surely that would change?) against his bottom. A grand gesture, leaving John with no doubt about what Sherlock wanted.

The distance, nearly three feet, seemed insurmountable. Surely if John were amenable he wouldn’t have moved them farther apart; he wouldn’t have gone immediately to sleep.

 _Idiot_ , Sherlock thought heatedly, and turned away.

*

Sherlock dozed for most of the night, tossing and turning in search of a position that was both comfortable and warm. The floor, despite the rug and the blankets Sherlock had laid down as a makeshift mattress, hurt his back and shoulders, and at least twice he woke to something jabbing him painfully in the hip. Not to mention that the fire popped and crackled all night, startling him awake more than once, and at one point he opened his eyes to see John knelt in front of it, prodding at it with the fire poker. The sight made him sombre, reminded Sherlock of his hopeless stupidity, so he rolled unhappily away, squeezing his eyes shut and willing himself back to sleep.

Sometime later, he heard John’s voice murmuring “Hey,” and he jerked awake to find John sitting on his haunches beside him. John’s bedsheets and quilts had been folded and piled atop the pillow, and John was dressed, freshly shaved, a bit of dried toothpaste at the corner of his mouth. He’d been up for some time, apparently. He must have been extraordinarily quiet for Sherlock to sleep through it.

“Morning,” John said, as Sherlock blinked groggily up at him. “I’m off. Wanted to ask something before I left though.”

Sherlock tried to sit up, to give John all of his attention, but he quickly discovered that one of his arms was asleep from his elbow to his fingers. It flopped about awkwardly, distracting him until John continued.

“Did you by any chance break the heating yesterday?”

Sherlock froze, still clutching his numb wrist. John’s head was cocked, a vaguely reptilian twist that said quite clearly, _Don’t even think of lying to me._

“I,” said Sherlock.

John talked right over him. “Just seems a bit too much of a coincidence, doesn’t it, finding a bunch of websites in my computer history about how to dismantle a heating unit only hours before our central heating breaks.”

His history? Sherlock had deleted John’s browser history after he’d borrowed the computer. Of course he had. Hadn’t he?

Sherlock couldn’t remember. All his preparations seemed a blur now, he’d been so focused on the results, or what he’d hoped (stupidly) would be the results.

“I couldn’t figure out why you’d want to, though,” said John. “Oh.” He half-turned and reached behind himself. When he turned back, he was holding something in his left hand. “Is this yours, by the way?”

It was the bottle of lubricant. Sherlock’s entire circulatory system seemed to come to a dead stop just as the pins and needles began to spread through his arm and hand.

“I found it when I was gathering up the sheets,” John said. “It looked like you might’ve nudged it between us in your sleep.”

Of course it had. It had slipped from Sherlock’s pocket and, with his tossing and turning, had ended up nearer to John than him. At least he could still feel the bulge of the condoms in his other pocket, although that was slim comfort.

“I,” Sherlock said.

John’s calm facade broke and his lips quirked up in a grin, rueful but genuine. “Idiot,” he said. The affection in that one word was so thick that it made Sherlock’s chest ache—a sensation that worsened when John lowered himself gracelessly to his knees and bent closer. “You complete fucking idiot.”

John kissed him. A simple dry press of his lips to Sherlock’s, but it was more than enough to draw a shameful, shattered moan from Sherlock’s throat. He reached for John with both hands, ignoring the stubborn pins and needles, and opened his mouth, desperate to get inside John in way he could.

Before he could manage, John drew back. He might’ve taken Sherlock’s ribcage with him, for how empty Sherlock felt without him.

“Fix the heating,” John said. He was staring at Sherlock’s still-parted lips, although he resisted Sherlock’s attempt to pull him back to them. “Do it yourself, phone someone, I don’t care—just fix it. All right?”

Sherlock nodded, just this side of frantic, and whined pitifully when John stood, dropping the lubricant into Sherlock’s pile of bedding. Sherlock shoved the blankets off him, damn the cold, and had half a mind to crawl after John, begging, while John backed away. It was only the fact that John was licking his lips, looking reluctant, that held him back.

“Right. I’m off then. I’ll see you tonight.”

John had barely shut the door behind him before Sherlock was scrambling to his feet and lunging for his phone.

*

By the time that John returned, not only was the heating repaired but the sitting room was picked up, the fireplace was swept, and even the furniture had been hoovered to remove any lingering scent of smoke.

Sherlock had also apologised to Mrs Hudson (which he thought John would appreciate, as John seemed inexplicably keen on apologies), showered, and then stood in front of his wardrobe for nearly thirty minutes debating his options. Ease of removal or visual appeal? Pyjamas would be more convenient in the event that John was amenable to undressing Sherlock ( _Please_ , he thought, _please be amenable_ ), but a pair of pressed, well-cut trousers and a tight-fitting shirt would accentuate his attractiveness, perhaps improve his chances.

In the end, he chose the latter. Then he sprawled on his back lengthwise on the sofa and arranged his clothing so that his white button-down shirt was stretched over his pectorals and his trousers were creased in a way that outlined the shape of his prick. Assuming that John was interested in that sort of thing, obviously.

 _And what if he isn’t?_ said a little Mycroft-sounding voice in Sherlock’s head. _An interest in being penetrated by a toy is entirely separate from an interest in being penetrated by a man. Hasn’t he told you over and over that he isn’t gay? Didn’t he—_

No. Sherlock shook his head, determined. John had kissed him utterly unprompted. John had licked his lips, a sign of arousal. Bisexuality existed. Everything else was noise; Sherlock resolved to ignore it.

When he heard John’s gait on the stairs (accompanied by the noise of paper rustling—a takeaway bag?), Sherlock positioned his tented hands beneath his chin and closed his eyes.

The door opened and shut, and—yes, it was takeaway. Indian. Sherlock could smell it. Bit of a curious choice. The rustling got closer and then drifted farther away. Into the kitchen, being set on the table. Next came the noise of a zipper and the rustling of cloth: John removing his coat.

“I see the heating’s fixed,” John said.

Sherlock considered pretending he was too deep in his mind palace to answer, then decided that would be counterproductive. “Mmhm.”

“And you tidied up a bit.”

Obvious. Sherlock’s toes wriggled impatiently in his socks.

“I got dinner,” John said. He was taking off his shoes now. Sherlock heard the heavy clunk of them hitting the floor as they were removed. “It’s from that little Indian place you like.”

Sherlock’s toes wriggled even harder. “Not hungry.”

“Yeah? Well, bully for you. I’m not letting you bugger me until I know you’ve had enough calories to keep your strength up.”

Sherlock’s toes went still and his eyes flew open. John was lowering himself to his knees beside the sofa, just by Sherlock’s head. One side of his lips was turned up.

“Did I get that right?” he said.

 _Get what right?_ Sherlock wondered, although right on the heels of that thought was _Doesn’t matter. He said something about buggering: say yes._

He nodded dumbly.

John’s smirk widened to a smile. “Thought so. I was thinking about it this morning, how odd you’ve been lately, and realised you haven’t exactly been subtle. Sorry I’m a bit dim. I didn’t—”

Sherlock kissed him, rising half off the sofa to do it, and this time John opened for him immediately. Sherlock tasted his breath, his saliva, and licked clumsily at John’s teeth and tongue. As he was exploring, John drew him closer, groaning. Sherlock’s head spun at the noise, and spun even faster when John grasped greedily at his shirt, tugging until the buttons strained.

John tore his mouth away suddenly, but as he didn’t go far, Sherlock allowed it. Particularly since his expression was hungry and he was raking his gaze down Sherlock’s reclined body like he didn’t know what part he wanted to devour first.

His voice was gruff in a way Sherlock had never heard before when he asked, “How’s your refractory period?”

“Impressive.” A bit of a fib. ‘Average’ would’ve been the more accurate response, but Sherlock was hardly going to admit that readily.

Besides, John’s laugh and the delightful crinkles that appeared at the corners of his eyes said that he had at least an inkling that Sherlock was fibbing. “Well, mine isn’t impressive,” he said. “If I come now, here, I won’t come later, but… if maybe I could touch you a bit….”

One hand trailed down Sherlock’s body, stopping just before it reached the tent in Sherlock’s trousers (embarrassingly prominent for how little stimulation there had been) and leaving no doubt about what he meant by that.

“Yes!” Sherlock nearly shouted it, reaching hastily for his zip. “Yes, that… yes.” His hands, shaking, fumbled slightly but finally managed to undo his trousers and, with John’s help, shove them down to his thighs, followed by his pants.

“Good.” John’s voice was lower and thicker than Sherlock would have ever thought possible. “Good, good, good.”

He kissed Sherlock as he wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s cock and squeezed. His grip was warm, albeit dry, and it felt so good that Sherlock’s jaw dropped and John could only kiss his bottom lip, which he bit and tugged and then kissed to soothe the hurt.

John pulled away so he could watch his own hand as it lifted Sherlock’s prick, holding the hard length perfectly perpendicular to Sherlock’s body. His thumb swiped, quick and light, over the fraenulum. Sherlock’s prick jerked and his lower back tried to arch. Hr hardly even recognised his own cry. It was so soft and wavery, startled but blissful.

“Oh my fucking god,” John said, nearly growling. He let go—“No,” Sherlock said, frantic, “no, no, please!”—but only long enough to spit twice into his palm. A clever move, it made his hand glide slick and smooth up Sherlock’s cock and then down again, drawing the foreskin back.

Sherlock covered his face so he couldn’t be tempted to look. If he did, if he saw John’s strong hand and thick fingers on his turgid cock, he would make a fool of himself, he was sure of it. He would gape stupidly and make mortifying sounds and hump John’s fist mindlessly and unattractively.

“Tell me if I do something wrong,” John said. “This is the first real cock I’ve done this to. Well, except for mine, obviously.”

 _The first_. Sherlock’s mind went strange and staticky. His fingers pressed into his forehead, pulled at his fringe, as he bucked and shook and came with a startled gasping cry.

John kept stroking, gradually slowing his pace as Sherlock’s cock spurted less and less. Finally, when Sherlock could hardly take it anymore, John let go.

“Sorry. Might’ve ruined your trousers a bit,” he said.

Sherlock’s trousers had seen far worse than semen, although when he tried to say as much, his tongue refused to cooperate. It only lolled, heavy and limp in his mouth, so with a huff he turned towards John, reaching blunderingly for him, simply because he could.

John kissed his slack mouth. There was a line of tension in his shoulders; Sherlock didn’t even have to see it to know it was there. He could sense it; he could feel it in the way John was holding himself. Not anger or discomfort, there wasn’t the heaviness in the air or the uncomfortable prickle on Sherlock’s skin that he associated with John’s fraying patience.

Arousal, Sherlock thought. Or perhaps that was simply wishful thinking on his part.

Then John sat back and heaved himself to standing, and Sherlock finally opened his eyes.

No, it was very much arousal. The considerable bulge in John’s jeans, the smell of it—Sherlock’s mouth watered.

“C’mon,” John said. There was a waver in his voice. His face was flushed, his pupils dilated. “Let’s have a chat while we eat.”

*

Sherlock ate with the single-mindedness and gluttony of a hunger for food he didn’t feel. If John’s one stipulation for penetration was that Sherlock eat, then Sherlock would shovel rice into his mouth and inhale his portion of butter chicken without so much as pausing for a drink.

And through it all, he glanced repeatedly at John, catching his eye and thinking, _Look, see how I’m doing exactly what you asked?_

“So,” John said. (Sherlock promptly stopped chewing to listen.) “I’m an oblivious tit.”

Ah. Apparently John had been serious about the chat. Sherlock held in a grimace but said nothing.

“I mean, it seems a bit obvious now, looking back,” John continued.

“How is it obvious?” said Sherlock. The question was garbled considerably by his half-chewed food, but not enough that it was incomprehensible.

“Well… how bizarre you were about the strap-on, for one.”

 _Strap-on_. John shouldn’t have been allowed to say that word; it was… obscene. The reminder that John had wanted to be fucked so badly that he’d been willing to pay for the tools to allow it.

“Like that,” said John. “You just drooled a bit of chicken onto your plate.”

“I didn’t.” Of course Sherlock hadn’t. Ridiculous. He swallowed and swirled the food on his plate, concealing anything that might’ve suggested otherwise.

“You did. But it doesn’t matter; that’s just one example. There was also you going through my things, you staring at my bum every sodding time I turned around—”

“I haven’t gone through your things,” Sherlock lied. As a proponent of what he considered ‘privacy’—and what Sherlock considered nonsense—John might’ve been particularly bothered by that one. Besides, Sherlock had been careful when he’d snooped; he’d disturbed as little as possible.

John laughed. The half-barking sort of laugh that most often meant, _You’re joking, right?_ “You—Sherlock, I came home a few days ago to find my toy box open on the floor and one toy in particular on the floor across the fucking room. You mean to tell me that wasn’t you?”

Sherlock was so taken aback that he dropped his fork, which fell to his plate with a clatter. Of course it couldn’t have been him. He’d always been careful to put everything back where he’d found it. Even when he’d been… affected, when he’d had to have a shower after—

 _Oh_ , he thought. _Oh bugger._

“Yeah.” John laughed again. “So. I dunno what I thought. Definitely not… well.”

 _‘Not that you were completely gagging for it and going mad from sheer want,’_ Sherlock mentally filled in.

“Course,” John said, “you also acted like a nutter when I started dropping hints, so that threw me off as well. I didn’t have the first fucking clue what to think.”

“How long?” Sherlock asked.

John blinked. “How long what?”

“How long have you—” Sherlock cocked his head, considered his words. “—been open to the possibility of… of me?”

“I could ask you the same.” John folded his arms and rested them on the table, nudging his plate away. “You were married to your work, the last I checked.”

 _Yes_ , Sherlock thought solemnly, _and mere hours after I said that, I desperately wanted to take it back._

“But for me,” John said. He looked away, his brows drawing closer and his forehead wrinkling. “A while.”

There was a wistful note in his tone that made Sherlock’s throat feel tight. “A while,” he echoed. There was a similar note in his own voice. “Yes. That.”

John cleared his throat, sitting back in his chair. “Right. Well. Now that we’ve cleared that up.” He nodded towards Sherlock’s plate. “Finish eating so you can do dirty things to me already.”

*

Sherlock eventually began to wish that he hadn’t eaten dinner after all. As soon as he and John were in Sherlock’s bedroom, his stomach gave a violent turn and he felt ill with nerves. He stood awkwardly by the door, shifting his weight from foot to foot and wringing his hands.

John seemed in a similar state. He stood glancing around Sherlock’s room as though he hadn’t seen it before, as though he hadn’t been in here numerous times to wake Sherlock or check on Sherlock or herd Sherlock into bed whenever Sherlock refused to admit he was ill or injured and needed rest.

“So,” said John, drawing out the _o_.

Sherlock’s stomach twisted again. He didn’t dare deduce John, lest his conclusions crush him. “Yes.”

His voice came out a bit higher than he would’ve preferred. John evidently heard it too, as he turned sharply to peer at Sherlock. His gaze raked over Sherlock’s face, which Sherlock tried to make as inscrutable as possible, and whatever he saw there made his shoulders relax and the corner of his lip curl upwards.

“Right,” he said. “Come here.”

Sherlock came, slowly, feeling like a wary pet approaching its owner. When he was close enough, John extended his arms and pulled him close, and then they were kissing, Sherlock hunching so that John didn’t have to stretch. John’s fingers sank into Sherlock’s hair and his lips were so soft, so warm, and opened so eagerly against Sherlock’s. Sherlock sucked and licked his bottom lip, even gave it a little nibble, which made John lift suddenly onto his toes with a quiet sound of pleasure that Sherlock could feel as well as hear.

John broke away, chuckling. “Jesus. Really keen on my arse, aren’t you.”

It was a long moment of licking his lips, savouring any remnants of John’s mouth, before Sherlock realised that he was cupping John’s bottom in his palms. One thumb was hooked into John’s back pocket. He didn’t even remember doing it. The last thing he could recall was his arms hanging limp at his sides while John drew him closer.

“A bit,” Sherlock admitted. He couldn’t resist flexing his hands, giving John’s arse cheeks a squeeze through the denim, which made John chuckle again and do a playful shimmy. Sherlock’s nerves were all but gone now, burrowing back wherever they’d come from. He groped again, revelling in John’s laugh and in the knowledge that John was here, delighted by Sherlock’s perverse fixation.

“I suppose it is a nice one,” John said, grinning cheekily.

It would be even nicer, Sherlock thought, when it was bare.

As if he’d heard the thought—almost a possibility, as Sherlock had certainly thought it loudly and fervently enough—John shooed Sherlock’s hands away and took a large step back, until he was standing just beside the bed. “Right then. Suppose I should let you have it then, shouldn’t I?”

 _Yes_. Sherlock’s knees quavered and the air swooped from his lungs, leaving him lightheaded and weak. _Oh god yes._ Although it was probably impolite, wasn’t it, to insist on jumping right to anal intercourse. They should… oh, Sherlock didn’t know, what did people do when they did this sort of thing? Explore each other, rub off on each other, put their mouths on each other, all of which sounded good, brilliant even. He should’ve assured John that he didn’t need to feel pressured to offer this, that Sherlock would be content—

Then John peeled off his jumper and turned to toss it aside. Sherlock could see his gnarled scar and his sculpted shoulder blades, the lines of his back, the muscles flexing as his spine twisted—and, lower, the small of his back dipping beneath his waistband, the white elastic of his pants peeking over his jeans, which were sagging very slightly on his hips. Sherlock’s throat went tight and dry, and he couldn’t—he couldn’t—

He stumbled forwards, plastered himself to John’s bare back, and— _oh_ , he thought, _god yes_. John’s arse was nestled against him, albeit clothed and at the height of his thighs rather than his cock, but it was close enough.

“Christ,” John said, sounding startled. But he grasped Sherlock’s hip to hold him in place, even dropped his head back onto Sherlock’s shoulder, so he mustn’t have minded. “C’mon. Give us a grind.”

Sherlock did. The thrust was apparently enough to upset John’s balance, and he tipped forwards onto the bed. Sherlock could’ve stopped himself from following probably, if he really wanted to, but as he didn’t, he fell flat on top of John, weighing him into the mattress.

“Fuck,” said John. His tone was that of a man who’d just got what he badly wanted. “Oh that’s good.” He clasped Sherlock’s hip again, pressing their bodies together. Sherlock’s feet dug into the carpet for purchase as he thrusted.

This time, he echoed John’s swear because their lower bodies were slotted perfectly together now; John’s arse was right against his cock. Even through their clothing, Sherlock could feel the hard gluteal muscles beneath a plump layer of flesh. In seconds his cock, already perked up, was thickening and straining against the front of his trousers, poking at John’s bottom. John let out a breathy moan and writhed back against it, tightening his grip on Sherlock’s hip until it hurt.

“Do you,” John said, then seemed to get distracted. He shoved his arse again and again into the outline of Sherlock’s prick.

It couldn’t have felt good physically, not really, at least not enough to be distracting to that degree. Had to have been the idea of it, the pleasure he got from the sheer thought of Sherlock penetrating him. Sherlock’s vision went abruptly dark. It took him a moment to even notice and then another moment to realise he’d closed his eyes, overcome.

“Do you,” John began again, “still have, mmm… things?”

Things? Sherlock forced his eyelids apart, then promptly regretted it. The back of John’s neck was flushed and his head was turned to the left, revealing his parted lips and one half-lidded eye. Still distracted, still imagining Sherlock’s slick—

 _Ah, things_.

Sherlock threw himself off John and dove towards the bedside table, where he’d replaced the condoms and lubricant that morning. He grabbed the latter, which slipped through his eager fingers and hit the floor with a thud. Thankfully, it didn’t spill. Clenching his teeth in embarrassment, Sherlock picked up the fallen bottle and snatched the box of condoms from the drawer.

When he turned, he saw that John had flipped onto his back and was shoving both his trousers and pants down his legs. His prick, flushed and hard and so large that Sherlock felt faint just looking at it, bobbed as he kicked his clothing to the floor and scooted backwards until his feet were no longer hanging off the mattress.

He was… alarmingly attractive, with his scar (pale pink and ragged, beautifully crater-like in appearance) and his muscles (toned, particularly his thighs, no doubt from all the running that Sherlock kept him occupied with) and his chest (sparse dusting of blond hair, nipples small but slightly puffed like they were about to harden). The flood of saliva in Sherlock’s mouth was probably unseemly. He tried to swallow it. His throat made a shamefully loud gulping noise.

John smirked. “Just gonna stand there?”

Sherlock climbed onto the mattress and clambered on all fours towards John. The condoms and lube, both crammed into the same hand, groaned as they were partly crushed. Not that Sherlock cared, preoccupied as he was by the need to cover John’s body with his own and breathe into John’s mouth, feel John’s ribcage expand and shrink and his pelvis lift, seeking Sherlock’s.

John laughed into Sherlock’s mouth, his arms going around Sherlock’s shoulders, and then he turned his face away so that Sherlock could no longer reach his lips.

“Get this off,” he said, tugging on Sherlock’s shirt. “And these.”

One of his knees bent and brushed pointedly against Sherlock’s trousers. It prompted Sherlock to glance down where John’s cock was still flushed and hard, so heavy it was weighted flat along his lower abdomen. Sherlock could almost taste it.

“Don’t,” said John. Sherlock’s gaze snapped immediately back to his face. “Don’t you dare get distracted. You’re meant to be fucking me, remember.”

“I’m not distracted,” Sherlock said, low and hoarse and, even to his own ear, not entirely convincing. “I’m only….”

 _Admiring imagining aching wanting craving_. Any of those or more would do, but John didn’t care to hear it. He laughed again and effortlessly wrestled the condoms and lube from where Sherlock had completely forgotten he was grasping (and crushing) them.

“Latex-free. Nice,” John said, lightly—overly so. Indicated discomfort, albeit faint. Puzzling, considering his body language still radiated confidence, this entire time in fact he had seemed—

 _Overcompensating_ , Sherlock thought despairingly. _Of course he’s uncomfortable—look at you, fumbling like a novice. Idiot._

“I didn’t know if you,” said Sherlock, mortified to hear that he was almost stuttering. He sat back on his haunches, allowing John to sit up. “That is, if you wanted to do away with them—”

“No.” John laughed. To Sherlock’s relief, it was a sound of genuine amusement rather than a front. “No, I prefer to use them actually. I’ve never had the pleasure of sitting on the toilet shitting out come after sex, but I’m not exactly keen on it.”

Oh, god, this wasn’t how it was meant to go. Talking of condoms of all things. There was meant to be whispered filth and begging and—and—neediness and breathlessness.

“You’re nervous,” Sherlock blurted, then promptly wished that it were physically possible to swallow one’s own tongue. Perhaps if he cut it off first.

John nodded once, looking down at the bottle of lubricant, which he spun around in his hand, scanning the label. “A bit, I suppose. Not sure why. Just….”

A list of possible concerns—ranging from fear of pain to gastrointestinal distress—cycled through Sherlock’s head. He decided to start with the most obvious. “Understandable. My… your toy—” Speaking the word aloud made his face heat, but he carried on as though it didn’t. “—is considerably smaller than… me.” His cheeks burned even hotter. That had sounded more like a boasting of his own size than a comment on the toy’s, as he’d intended it to be.

Adding to his humiliation, John’s response was a snort. Then Sherlock stopped thinking altogether when John flipped onto his stomach and squirmed about until he was lengthwise on the mattress with his knees bent beneath him, lifting his arse up.

“Don’t hypothesise without all the data. Isn’t that what you always say?” John said, propping up on his elbows so that his upper half was raised as well. Instinctively, Sherlock reached towards him, nearly trailed his fingertips over the crest of John’s hip and back over his bottom, but he stopped himself at the last second. “I took the harness and the small dildo. I let her keep the larger ones. So trust me, _that_ —” John lifted even higher so that he was sitting on his haunches, mirroring Sherlock, although looking no doubt far more attractive. “—won’t be the largest thing I’ve had up me.”

An elbow to Sherlock’s diaphragm would have affected him less. The idea, the image… his mind ground to a halt to give them his full focus, and for several seconds he saw nothing but the imagined picture of John sinking slowly and carefully onto a monstrously thick, long silicone prick, his eye crinkles deepened with concentration and his thighs quivering. He’d be gaping afterwards, so pink and soft inside, so wet….

By the time Sherlock’s mind began to race again, he discovered that John had lowered himself back to his knees and elbows. One elbow, rather—his left arm was stretched behind him, hand between his arse cheeks.

Sherlock nearly fell forwards onto his face in his haste to crawl closer, to insinuate himself behind John and insist, “Let me. I’ll do it. Let—”

The sight undid him. With John’s knees shuffled slightly apart, his cleft was exposed. The sensitive strip of skin, the spattering of curly hair (darker than the hair on his head, possibly due to the effects of sweat and lubricant), his anus (Sherlock’s breath caught and he swayed, lightheaded) wrinkled and shining with slick, John’s index finger just barely, barely slipping inside.

“Right,” John said, pulling his fingertip out. He folded his arms under his head and did a playful bum wiggle that made Sherlock ache. “Gentle, please.”

“Obviously.” Sherlock’s tone was breathless, but he couldn’t bring himself to care any longer what an idiot he was. Not when John was presenting himself like this.

There was a mole, or perhaps a large freckle, an inch below John’s arsehole. Sherlock stared at it, oddly transfixed, and then—cautiously, ready to yank back in a second if John protested—covered it with the tip of his forefinger. The contact made John’s body jerk in surprise, startling Sherlock. His finger slipped and—

 _Oh_ , he thought. _Fuck_. The pad of his finger rested on the wrinkled rim, which was still slippery with lubricant. Although he’d need more, of course. His own finger was completely dry; he couldn’t penetrate John dry.

He’d barely thought it before John was saying, “Mmm,” his voice full of contentment like he’d just taken a drink of perfectly made tea. He pushed backwards. The request was clear and Sherlock complied without a second thought.

John was warm inside. Sherlock had expected that, of course, as he knew perfectly well that John was alive, but still somehow it was surprising. All the air left his lungs in a shuddery gust. His prick gave a tremendous jerk, and he suspected that if it weren’t being trapped and squeezed uncomfortably by his clothes, it might’ve ejaculated right there and then.

“Mmm,” John said again. He straightened his elbows, rising up onto his hands, and his head dropped forwards, lengthening his neck. His shoulder blades moved beneath his skin, rising from his back like hills on the horizon. His arse, already seeming to clutch at Sherlock’s forefinger, clenched more strongly. “Oh, that’s nice. Bit deeper.”

Sherlock sank all the way to his knuckles. When John responded with another contented hum and a languid roll of his hips, making his internal muscles ripple, Sherlock echoed the noise, although his “Mm” was shorter and sounded almost pained.

“All right?” John asked with a tinge of concern.

 _Idiot_ , Sherlock thought. _Get ahold of yourself before he changes his mind and asks you to stop._ He said, “Yes,” considerably more coolly than he felt.

“Good. That’s—ahh, that’s it, that’s the spot.”

Sherlock stilled his hand, letting John rock onto his forefinger as he pleased. Every time he took the full length of Sherlock’s finger, John’s pelvis made a little sliding motion, rubbing the rim of his arsehole against the texture of Sherlock’s knuckles. Just like Sherlock had deduced: it was the external sensation John enjoyed.

The thrill of being right, usually all-consuming, barely registered in the maelstrom of other, more pressing sensations.

“Maybe another?” John said. “And a bit more slick?”

Removing his finger from John’s arse was nearly torturous. Sherlock did it as slowly as possible, which afforded him the sight of John’s hole trying to cling needily to his finger as it slid free. (A ridiculous thought, he knew, it was simply that the lubrication was drying up, John’s skin no longer gliding so smoothly against Sherlock’s, but when the alternative was John’s arsehole being a hopelessly greedy little thing, oh god, he hardly cared about reality.)

It took seconds to locate the lubricant bottle trapped between folds in the duvet and pour a generous amount of its contents into his hand, which was entirely too long for Sherlock. He couldn’t slip back inside John quickly enough: two fingers this time, which didn’t sink quite as effortlessly in as the one had done. Still, a bit of pressure, and Sherlock managed to fit the tips inside. The rest of the length went easily, with a soft squidging sound that tore a choked moan from Sherlock’s throat.

John fell back onto his elbows, murmuring “Fucking hell” as he tipped his chin up, turning his face to the ceiling. For a moment Sherlock longed to see the expression on his face. Then John shoved backwards, grinding his bottom into Sherlock’s hand, and Sherlock forgot about his face and focused entirely on his arse. How the width of his hand made John’s arse cheeks dimple and spread, how his pale fingers looked as they disappeared into John’s pink hole.

“Maybe a third one now,” said John. So much for his nervousness, which seemed to have vanished completely now, eclipsed by lust and pleasure.

Sherlock’s ring finger went in less smoothly than the first two, but not as difficultly as Sherlock feared it might have done. John was tight, so tight that Sherlock’s fingers were squeezed uncomfortably together by the clutch of his internal muscles. But Sherlock’s discomfort was secondary to John’s pleasure, especially when John moaned and thrusted sharply backwards, ensuring he was fully impaled.

For a moment he seemed as far from human speech as Sherlock had been for ages now, although he kept moving, his hips rutting back and forth on Sherlock’s fingers. A sheen of sweat appeared on his back, dampening the hair at his nape, and eventually he lifted his head and said, “You could do some of the work yourself, you know. Not just leave, uhn—”

Sherlock was moving before he’d made the conscious decision to, taking over and thrusting his fingers at the rhythm John had set, which was deliberate without being slow. John’s cry was so blissful, so _relieved_ , that Sherlock was immediately furious with himself for waiting so long, for remaining still as a corpse while John did all the work.

“Oh god,” John groaned. His head dropped, mashing his face into the duvet. His next cry was muffled. “Oh fuck.”

 _You can have this anytime you want,_ Sherlock thought, with no small amount of satisfaction, relishing John’s moans. _I’ll give it to you whenever you ask. Please, just—_

“Get your cock in me,” John said. He was panting now, his shoulder blades heaving. Lube had begun to leak from his arsehole, dribbling over Sherlock’s knuckles and staining his shirtsleeves. “Now.”

It was only then that Sherlock recalled he was still fully dressed. That he would have to, at the very least, remove his trousers to proceed. He began to do so, but his hands were sweaty and shaking; both the button and zip slipped in grip, ruining his attempt at haste. Removing his trousers once they were undone proved even more difficult, as it required him to sit properly.

To make matters worse, John twisted his upper body around so that he could watch with dark, half-lidded eyes as Sherlock trembled and fumbled like the last person in the whole bloody world anyone would want to be fucked by. But John didn’t seem put off. If anything, he seemed even more keen. He licked his lips and wiggled his bum, shuffled his knees even farther apart. Sherlock felt as though his lungs were in danger of expanding beyond his chest cavity.

“God,” John said, when Sherlock had finally managed to divest himself of not only his trousers but his pants as well. “You’re gorgeous.”

Sherlock certainly didn’t feel it, flushed and flustered with his prick jutting out from his body like a tree branch and making an obscene tent where his shirt hung over it. But neither was he going to argue if John wanted to think so.

His shirt came off more easily, owing primarily to the fact that when his fingers faltered on the buttons he needed only grip the fabric and give a sharp tug for the buttons to pop free, some of them to pop off entirely, not that he cared. If the shirt was ruined beyond repair, it would be well worth it.

“Don’t forget the condom,” John said.

The way he said it was… lofty, lazy, and with his head still pillowed on his forearms and his arse lifted, clearly waiting for Sherlock to get on with it, unwilling to lift a finger to help, it was—it made Sherlock’s heart throb and his blood sing. It made him want to impress John even more badly than he had the day they’d first met.

As quickly as he could, he finished disrobing, ripped open a foil condom package, and put it on. The brand he’d chosen was pre-lubricated, although of course he would need to use more. The thin layer of slick was already being wiped away just by Sherlock rolling it onto his prick.

“Come on,” John said. “Before my muscles start to tighten up again.”

Sherlock saw white. _Oh_ , he thought, _fucking hell_. The implication, the reminder—John was loose for Sherlock. Sherlock had opened him like a knife opens a wound, and anyone who examined his body now (not that Sherlock would allow it) would see what Sherlock had done.

When his vision cleared, he found his fingers, slippery, fumbling with the bottle of lubricant. For once, the only time in his remembrance, his transport was more clever and capable than his mind.

He positively soaked himself with lube, enough so that as he stroked the length of his condom-covered cock the lube gathered and oozed between his fingers, dripped down his knuckles and arms and onto the bed, and made— _Oh fucking hell_ , Sherlock thought again—soft wet sucking sounds.

As Sherlock shuffled into position, John sat up so that when Sherlock’s cock was lined up he could sink onto it with a grunt. Sherlock was absurdly thankful for the condom, which numbed the sensation of John’s warm body welcoming him in. Otherwise, he suspected he’d have embarrassed himself horribly.

As it was, it felt like the air was being punched from his lungs and the coherent logic being drained from his thoughts. His mind was nothing but a marsh of clichés like _hot_ and _wet_ and _tight_. His hands were trembling, from nerves or oversensitivity or some mixture of the two. He gripped John’s waist to try to steady them.

The move was badly timed, as John chose that moment to pitch forwards onto his forearms again. Sherlock was drawn down with him until he was lying on top of John.

“Shit,” John said. “Fucking—shit.” There was a note of discomfort in his voice that returned at least a bit of rational thought to Sherlock’s brain.

“All right?” Sherlock could only see a sliver of his face and supplemented with his hand, gently exploring John’s expression by touch. John’s eyes were squeezed shut, wrinkling the skin at the corners, and his mouth was tight and flat.

“Burns a bit,” said John. Then, just as Sherlock was summoning the resolve to pull out: “Feels… good, actually.”

The statement was accompanied by a hesitant roll of his hips, shoving Sherlock’s prick deeper and then sliding an inch or so off it. His muscles tightened, voluntarily or not, and Sherlock saw stars. His hand, still prodding at John’s jaw, curled and gripped on instinct, desperate for something to cling to: in this case, John’s throat.

“Mmm,” John said. Sherlock could feel his vocal folds vibrating. “Mmm that’s good.”

Another hip roll, rougher this time, and John’s answering “Mmm” was higher, tinged with frustration. It sent another swift jolt to Sherlock’s sluggish brain.

He was meant to be doing the work. Right. He drew his own hips back, gasping at the sensation of his prick sliding free (John’s muscles clutching at him, loath to be empty), before he drove forwards again, stuffing John full of his cock.

“Ahh!” John jerked beneath him, sounding rapturous. His neck arched, pushing the curve of his throat into Sherlock’s fingers and scraping his hair against Sherlock’s chin. Sherlock kissed his temple instinctively. “Oh god, that’s it. Mm, fuck me, come on.”

He managed for a bit, revelling in John’s cries and panting into John’s hair. Then John’s moans became whimpers and he grasped Sherlock’s hips, fingernails digging into the skin above Sherlock’s buttocks.

“Please,” he said, sounding needful. “Please.” Begging for something meant he was unsatisfied, wanting; it meant that Sherlock was disappointing him.

Snarling at his own failure, Sherlock heaved himself upright, slipping out of John in the process, which drew a low, pitiful groan from John’s throat. When he pushed back in, he had better leverage, on his knees with his hands on either side of John’s hips hauling John back onto his cock.

John went eagerly and with a gasp of relief. His hole made a wet squishing noise as Sherlock’s cock pushed deeper. Sherlock’s head spun; his whole body, starting with his cock, seemed to throb with pleasure, so strong it threatened to consume him.

He endeavoured to ignore it, filled his lungs and gathered his strength, and thrusted with… well, not all his might but certainly more strongly and quickly than he had been, still gripping John’s hips to keep him from falling forwards.

“Oh _fuck_ ,” John said. His head dropped, his nape extending and a bead of sweat dribbling down the length. “Oh that—”

When Sherlock thrusted again, words seemed to fail John. His voice dissolved into a string of moans that rose and fell with the pounding in-and-out of Sherlock’s prick in his arse. The feel of it, the slick glide of his cock (as hard as Sherlock had ever felt it now) along John’s warm tight muscles, was overwhelming even through the condom. It took all his control not to lose himself in it, to keep his focus on John—John’s pleasure, any indications of John’s pain, John’s rippling back muscles and sweat-glistening skin, John’s shoulder-heaving gasps and whimpering moans.

When suddenly John’s head lifted and one arm flung back to scrabble at Sherlock’s thigh, trying to tug him even closer and drive his cock deeper, Sherlock reacted entirely on instinct. He clasped John’s wrist and laid his other palm between John’s shoulder blades and shoved him back down.

Immediately John’s moans pitched lower and he found his words again. “Ohhh that’s nice. Jesus, that’s good. God yes, just like that, please.”

 _‘Please.’ Not enough_ , Sherlock thought, and put even more of his weight onto John until he could scarcely move, his upper body pinned to the mattress with his arse still impaled on Sherlock’s cock.

In seconds, John was sobbing. His new litany of “uhhn, uhhn, uhhn” was deep and guttural; Sherlock could feel the very faint rumble of it even through his back. His hole clenched around Sherlock’s prick and he struggled briefly in Sherlock’s hold, solely so he could rock back and forth, a complement to Sherlock’s pounding thrusts.

It was enough to splinter Sherlock’s already fragile control, like a bullet through a bit of rotted wood. Echoing John’s sobbing moans, he buried his cock as far into John’s arse as it would go, until John could probably feel Sherlock’s trimmed pubic hair against his hole, and filled the condom with come.

Only after the strongest of the aftershocks had passed did he realise how terribly, unforgivably selfish he’d just been, getting himself off without giving even a thought to John’s cock, and then he couldn’t pull out and climb off fast enough. As soon Sherlock’s weight on him was gone, John turned over. His penis flopped, mostly soft, and Sherlock thought his horror at his own thoughtlessness would choke him.

“I,” he said, but the words ( _Sorry sorry so sorry I can do better I’ll be better please_ ) wouldn’t form. They only spun, fragmented and elusive, in his brain.

John hissed, his expression contorting as his legs stretched out. “Damn. Must’ve had them bent too long. Could you—”

Sherlock was already moving, grabbing one leg and helping it straighten, massaging the muscles in John’s upper calves. John whimpered, relieved, and hitched his leg even higher, hooking it over Sherlock’s shoulder. The other leg remained low, pressed against Sherlock’s hip.

“Cheers,” John said, reaching between his parted thighs. “That’s—oh that feels lovely.”

One hand wrapped around his prick, which swiftly began to thicken, and the other drifted lower, covering where he was still pink and slick and open. Mouth watering, Sherlock fully expected John’s fingers to sink inside, but they only pressed gently into his perineum and the sensitive skin around his hole.

“I can,” Sherlock began. “That is, if—”

Fortunately, John seemed to understand. “Another time,” he said, panting. “When I don’t need it quite so… mmm.” His jaw went slack, his eyelids half-mast. His cock, nearly twice as thick as it had been minutes before and even longer, massive and gorgeous, jerked in his grip. A tiny dribble of precome leaked from the slit. He stroked faster. “Oh fuck, fuck.”

And then he was coming, impressively quickly for a man of his age who moments before had been barely erect. His lower back arched and he drove his heel painfully into the top of Sherlock’s shoulder blade, as come spurted from his prick, shooting thick white stripes on his abdomen.

“Oh fuck,” Sherlock echoed, awestruck by the sight. John’s fingers, the ones covering his loose and no doubt tender hole, curved and pressed harder, as though relishing the lingering sensation of being penetrated. Reliving it perhaps. Remembering how Sherlock had held him down and fucked him until he sobbed.

Sherlock turned his face helplessly into John’s knee, smearing his lips against the nearest bit of skin. _I adore you_ , he thought. _You couldn’t fathom the things I would do to have this again_.

*

“Sorry,” John said sheepishly afterwards. He was standing in front of the sink cleaning the drying come from his belly with a damp flannel. Sherlock hovered in the entrance, watching awkwardly. “Probably should’ve warned you. I can’t keep an erection when there’s something bigger than a finger up my arse. But the sort of… used, achy feeling after always gets me a bit, erm, keyed up.”

 _Used, achy feeling_. If Sherlock weren’t distracted by something of much greater importance, the phrasing might’ve aroused him all over again.

“I’d have taken care of it,” he said instead. “Of you, that is. You didn’t have to… take things into your own hands. So to speak.”

It was very, very important that John understood this. That John knew Sherlock was aware of his failure and was dedicated to correcting it, that next time he would pay particular attention to ensuring John was physically satisfied before Sherlock was.

But John didn’t seem bothered. He shrugged one shoulder, not looking away from his task. “It’s fine. Like I said, I was a bit keyed up by that point. I didn’t really have the patience for it.”

Even worse. It meant John believed that Sherlock would be so inept at stimulating him that it would take ages for him to achieve orgasm.

“But next time,” said Sherlock and then shrivelled up, ashamed at his own presumption. Hadn’t he watched John go through a whole string of sexual partners in the years before Mary? Perhaps he was eager to return to that lifestyle. Perhaps this had just been an experiment, a quick shag with a man before he went back to the gender he preferred. “Assuming you’re amenable to a next time, of course.”

That made John look up. His eyebrows were drawn together, wrinkling his forehead. “Of course there’ll be a next time. A lot of next times, I expect.”

Finished cleaning himself, John rinsed and wrung out the flannel, then draped it over the edge of the sink with a deliberateness that said he was carefully considering his next words.

“Maybe I wasn’t clear before,” he said eventually. “But I’m not… I mean, I thought this could maybe become a, erm. A permanent thing.”

Time stopped. Sherlock could feel his heart pounding somewhere in the vicinity of his larynx, and his oesophagus seemed to have twisted itself in his throat. He struggled to swallow and control his saliva production. His voice was thick with sentiment when he said, “Yes?”

John blinked. On some level, Sherlock realised that a questioning tone perhaps wasn’t the best one to adopt, but it was too late to take it back. “Yes. Is that all right?”

Stupid. Of course it was all right. It was… it was the best news Sherlock had heard for weeks, in fact. “Yes! Yes, that… yes.”

A smile broke through John’s expression of confusion, lighting him up like a constellation. He was lovely. If it were his face in the night sky, Sherlock thought he’d never have deleted the solar system. It would’ve had its own room in Sherlock’s mind palace.

“Right,” John said. “Good.”

His body brushed Sherlock’s as he eased past him and returned to the bedroom. He was limping slightly, from both the tenderness in his arse and his still stiff and sore legs. Watching him approach the bed, Sherlock was struck with the urge to put his arms around him and hold him, sharing his breath and heat and scent, for weeks.

“C’mon,” said John. “Dunno about you, but I fully intend to spend the rest of tonight in this bed.”

Sherlock went.


End file.
